


Green Carnation

by Elsinore_and_Inverness



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, one hundred year nap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 15:36:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12391059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsinore_and_Inverness/pseuds/Elsinore_and_Inverness
Summary: After the death of Oscar Wilde Aziraphale needs a friend. An awake friend.





	Green Carnation

Berkeley Square. 1900.

Aziraphale had held off attempting drastic measures to get Crowley to wake up during moments of crisis over the past century. But now he was desperate.

He broke the lock on Crowley’s door, too shaken to be bothered with opening it properly. He’d replace it later, he told himself. 

Crowley had shifted positions since he had seen him last. Even though he had slipped into a state of semi-stasis, not needing to eat, his hair and nails barely growing, Aziraphale was still afraid he would he would get bedsores or pneumonia. 

Now he was lying on his right side, knees bent, one arm stretched across the pillow beside him, the other lying palm up on the crumpled velvet duvet. Not exactly Briar Rose.

‘You’re so lucky,’ he told the sleeping form bitterly. ’So abominably lucky.’

Crowley let out a long slow snore.

‘I need you. I need you now.’ 

Aziraphale knew it made no sense to be angry, but he was more distraught than he could remember ever being and he felt himself starting to cry again.

‘I need you, Crowley.’ It was a growl now, low and choked. ‘And I’m sorry.’

He shook the sleeping demon, knowing it was futile. He conjured a stream of icy water and watched as it soaked into Crowley’s linen nightshirt. The demon shivered and drew his arms to his chest protectively, but otherwise made no response.

‘I’m so sorry.’

He pinched the skin on the inside of his forearm and twisted. 

Crowley gasped and his eyes fluttered open.

‘Sorry.’

Crowley’s disused voice and vaguely conscious mind made a hoarse sound of recognition.

‘Easy, easy there.’

‘Aziraphale?’ Crowley tried to say, but it came out sounding more like ’sssss-uhh-fay.’

‘It’s me.’

‘Wha' yearssss s’it.’

’Nineteen hundred.’

As Crowley blinked, Aziraphale swam into focus. He looked terrible. His eyes were red-rimmed and there were tear stains tracked across his face, his favourite coat was crumpled, the clothes he wore beneath it even more so. There was a withered green carnation pinned to his lapel.

‘Wha…’ Crowley paused to clear his throat, ‘What have you done to that poor flower?’

‘Crowley, don’t-' But the demon had already reached up and touched the blossom, the petals filling out again, becoming soft and lace-like.

‘What’s wrong? What happened?’

‘Oh Crowley.’

Crowley propped himself up on his elbows. ‘I’m starving. Are any of our old haunts still open? What about the place with the muffins near Drury Lane?’

Aziraphale was fighting back tears once again. ‘It’s perfectly heartless talking about muffins, under the circumstances.’

Crowley stared at him in confusion. ‘What about teacake?’

‘Hate teacake,’ Aziraphale sobbed.

‘No you don’t.’

‘Do now.'

‘What happened, Zira? Please tell me.' 

‘I couldn’t help him, Crowley.’

‘Couldn’t help who?’

‘When they sent him to prison… They hurt him… Got infected.’ Aziraphale hiccuped.

Crowley’s brain was still foggy, and having trouble coming up to speed. ‘That’s awful.’

‘Died in Paris. Took the ferry. Broke your door.’

‘You knew him well?’

‘Have all his books and plays back in Soho.’

‘Ah.’ Some of the colour drained from Crowley’s face as he remembered the night William Shakespeare had died. He had been suffering from a cerebral hemorrhage for about a month, brought on by stress and drink. 

‘I loved him.’

Crowley nodded. He attempted to swing his legs over the side of the bed to move closer to Aziraphale. He was surprised by how weak he was, feeling dizzy after trying to sit up.

‘Careful, take it slowly.’ 

It had been sixty-eight years since he had sat on the edge of the bed, or stood up, or walked anywhere. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was an expression of sympathy or an apology for his feebleness,

He leaned on Aziraphale for support as he tentatively put his feet down for the first time in over half a century. Aziraphale was glad of it, the familiar touch now guided by necessity.

They would be alright, in time, and they had all the time in the world.


End file.
